


Some Rise by Sin, and by Virtue Fall

by takadainmate



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 12:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3290894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takadainmate/pseuds/takadainmate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Jehoel was born to be Mediation, but nothing he did ever seemed to work. He couldn’t stop the battles and the anger and the love that was hate. Most of his kind couldn’t even tell the difference any more.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>It was why he had followed Castiel, in the beginning. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The History

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted as part of deancas_xmas 2010.

It had been neither a long nor a fierce war, but it had been unexpected and it had been bitter in a way that no angel could help but compare to the First War. It tasted of betrayal and of twisted love and pride, obsession, and all the other things that angels shouldn’t feel. Weren’t _designed_ to feel. 

They had thought that it could never happen again. That never again would angel kill angel. Never again would it happen that an angel sought power over other angels, over _God_. They were servants and they had no will of their own and for the longest time Jehoel had believed it, and had been glad for it because it meant he’d never have to see his brothers and sisters killing and tearing at each other again. He had cried for them then, as he cried for them now.

Jehoel was born to be Mediation, but nothing he did ever seemed to work. He couldn’t stop the battles and the anger and the love that was hate. Most of his kind couldn’t even tell the difference any more.

It was why he had followed Castiel, in the beginning. 

More than because Castiel had been resurrected by their father. More than because he had been resurrected more glorious, more bright and full of Grace than he had been before. Before Castiel, such a thing was unheard of. But for Jehoel it was his brother’s great love. It was because Castiel wanted nothing more than peace, for them all to be as they were supposed to be; creatures who followed their Father’s will. Never could Jehoel, nor any other cherub, imagine that their Father would ever want his children to be at odds. Not with each other and certainly not with His beloved humanity.

Castiel was one of the many, an ordinary soldier who had known very little of either Heaven or Earth. For the longest time he would have known only battle and discipline and absolutes, but even he had seen the difference between right and wrong. He had questioned and he had recognised the wicked, unholy ways of his superiors and showed compassion. And for all this the cherubs loved him and followed him. They were not made to fight, and they were not made to endure, but for this- to bring their brothers to peace and to ensure the preservation of humanity- they did what they could.

Jehoel, who had always been a negotiator, an intermediary, amongst his brothers and sisters, was charged with persuasion, brokering alliances, and with ensuring that Castiel did not drown in the endless demands and prayers and petitions of his supporters. Or more accurately, Jehoel charged himself with these things for Castiel would certainly never ask it of anyone. Castiel commanded his armies and he sent his brothers and sisters to war, but he would not seek his own comfort, as though he did not believe he deserved it.

Many times Jehoel wondered what could have happened on Earth, before his return, that had made Castiel so very cautious and so very reserved and solitary. It set Castiel apart more than anything else; against the very nature of angels it was almost as though Castiel could not trust his kin. 

Perhaps it was understandable, because they were embroiled in a war with others of their kind, but Castiel did not seem to trust even his closest supporters. His reticence was plain to see in the way he disallowed anyone from going to Earth. In the way he would not reveal where he was going half the time, from the way he never spoke of Hell or Dean Winchester or Raphael or anything else which related to that failed Apocalypse. And Castiel made no secret of it.

For this reason, it was with much elation that Jehoel was asked to accompany Castiel to Earth.

It was the first time Castiel had shown even the smallest amount of confidence in another angel, and Jehoel tried not the think of how proud it made him that he had been chosen. 

Castiel, chosen himself by their Father, one of the most powerful of the Host, and certainly the most head-strong, and he sought out the help of a lowly cherub. 

"You are mediation," Castiel said, as though this explained everything, and took hold of Jehoel's hand.

***

There were many things that Jehoel wished that he had not had to learn.

What it felt like to see hatred and disgust in the eyes of his own brothers and sisters. Betrayal. Realising what lies were and how much they _hurt_. With the realisation Jehoel understood Castiel's reticence all too well. 

That day, he came to understand the sorrow in Castiel's eyes as he fought the other angels off. Jehoel understood his desperation as Castiel grabbed for Jehoel's wrist and demanded he _fly_ and _now_. The feel of his brother's blood on his hands, warm and sweet and so very red was something Jehoel would not forget. He had not been to Earth in a very long time, and he had not seen humanity in many centuries, but Jehoel recognised that the blood of an angel did not belong on Earth. It fell to the ground as they flew and from it nothing good could come. 

Castiel, powerful and not at all proud, used his own vessel to keep the sharp swords of their kin- their _enemies_ \- away from Jehoel, and Jehoel knew fear and guilt and desperate grief. 

"Faster," Castiel urged. But to where could they run? 

Their brothers were many, and they were two. Their brothers were angry and fierce and there was no mercy in their Grace and it made Jehoel feel sick, that this was what they had become. 

This, he decided, was even worse than before. This was more horrifying than the First War because there was no reason for this fight anymore. Castiel’s resurrection could only be the work of their Father, and could only signify his approval. This fight had become selfish, hateful, and Jehoel could see nothing to be gained from it. Only more dissonance between the angels. Only more discord in Heaven. Jehoel realised as he beat his wings faster than he had in his entire existence, that perhaps this was what Castiel had been keeping from them all. Perhaps his solitude had been a means to their _protection_. 

Suddenly changing directions, Castiel wrapped Jehoel in his great wings and they fell towards the Earth faster than Jehoel had ever travelled before. So fast that he feared he could not possibly survive. Just as they were about to hit the ground they were suddenly elsewhere, transported to some other part of the Earth that was no longer the dense green forest they had been escaping from. 

Still, they flew within the sphere of Earth and so they were bound to its physics and Jehoel and Castiel came upon the Earth at a painfully fast velocity, slowed only marginally by Castiel's outstretched wings. Jehoel felt the structure of them snap and tear and cried out, even though Castiel did not.

The ground, Jehoel learned, _hurt_.

For a long while Jehoel was too dazed to move. He knew they should keep moving, and he knew he should ensure that Castiel was all right, because their brothers had been cruel and ruthless in the way they had cut at him and there had been a lot of blood. But all Jehoel could do was lie upon the Earth and try to gather himself back together. 

It was quieter here. More dry. There was none of the fertile plant life of before, and there was no sky here. Inside then, in some human structure which felt as profane as anything Man could create, and as _ugly_. The ground beneath them was carpeted in greens and browns that could never have been natural, and as Jehoel moved, testing the damage to his vessel and himself, he saw that Castiel was indeed bleeding all across the floor. 

"Castiel," he whispered, and tried not to panic when his brother's eyes stayed closed and he did not move. Jehoel didn't know how to heal and he didn't know who he could trust and he had no idea where he was. And still Castiel lay, motionless and pale and probably dying and Jehoel felt utterly helpless. 

"You have to tell me what to do," he begged, but all Castiel did was continue to bleed from his vessel. Not wanting to see any more spill, Jehoel pressed his hands to where the wounds were worst, against Castiel's stomach and his side, and wished that their Father had made humans with more hands so that he might cover the gashes on his shoulder and along his brother's back too. The touch caused Castiel to stir, breathing air he didn't need in short, pained gasps. Jehoel wanted very much to cry. 

"Castiel," he called again, "Brother, please."

Jehoel was no warrior, but he knew enough to realise that they were not safe here. They were not hidden.

It was supposed to be a meeting for the brokerage of peace. It was supposed to be the end of the war, and the betrayal of it burned Jehoel's Grace in a way he'd never felt before. 

It was anger, he realised, and felt ashamed.

Except Castiel's Grace was ripped. Slashed and torn by their own brothers and if he'd known how to, Jehoel would have cursed those who’d turned on them. Castiel had protected him, had saved his life, and Jehoel meant to do the same. So he pressed against the wounds more forcefully, willing the blood to stop spilling and the cuts to heal. He was only a cherub, but he was still an angel and he was not about to let Castiel die. Not here, on the dirty floor of some human structure, at the hands of treacherous brothers.

They were on Earth, and the only other angels here were those who followed Raphael, or who followed themselves. He could not go to Heaven for help without leaving Castiel alone and defenceless. To carry Castiel away himself- away from the strange human smells of decay and sweat and things Jehoel couldn't recognise- was impossible. And there was only Dean and Sam Winchester who Jehoel knew Castiel would trust. But they were just humans. What could they do?

"You must wake up," Jehoel insisted. 

The bleeding, at least, had slowed with the application of Grace and pressure and hope. It was something, Jehoel thought, and moved around his brother's vessel to crouch by his head and wipe away the blood at his neck and from his mouth with the edges of his own vessel's shirt. Where once it had been white it was now a bright red, and Jehoel's hands were sticky and stained. It had been a long time since Jehoel had felt the physical sensations of their Father's world. He had forgotten how horrifying they could be.

Desperately trying to think of some way to fix this, or to call for help, Jehoel pushed aside the layers of Castiel's clothes to reveal a deep puncture wound low on his shoulder. If it had gone all the way through, Jehoel realised, if one of the angels had pierced through Castiel's vessel much deeper he would be dead. It was useless though, to agonise over what might have been. What could have been. This was something Castiel always said; that they could not help what had happened. They could only move forward, concentrating on what was in front of them. On the future. 

Jehoel steeled himself, sick as it made him feel to see his brother this way and to feel so utterly inadequate. Castiel would not be so utterly afraid. So Jehoel pressed down on this wound too, pushing his own Grace within his brother and again Castiel stirred, shifting restlessly under his hands. His face showed great pain and distress but there was nothing Jehoel could do to alleviate that. He just wanted Castiel to live. 

And then, Castiel's eyes opened, just a little, but it was something. Jehoel leaned over him, not letting go of the wound, but wanting to see his brother's eyes and to know he was helping and not making things worse. 

"Castiel," he called, and watched as Castiel's eyes tried to focus on his face. Jehoel didn't know much about human physiology, but he knew enough to guess that this was not a good sign. "You must tell me how I can help you," Jehoel insisted. 

It was a long few minutes before Castiel could reply, like he found it difficult to understand the words. He looked around and Jehoel could feel his confusion. 

"I couldn't return us to Heaven," he said finally. His voice was so very quiet. Not at all like the Castiel Jehoel had come to know. 

"No," Jehoel said. "We were trying to escape. You brought us here." 

Where here was, Jehoel still wasn't sure. 

"I won't leave you. Tell me what to do," he asked again. 

There was a strange smile on Castiel's face, something sad and resigned. 

"There is no help for us here." Castiel took a deep breath. It stuttered in his human lungs, wet and strained. "You must return to Heaven." 

"I will not." Jehoel might only be of a low Order, but he had listened to Castiel and he had understood very well and taken to heart the part about Free Will and choice. "There is Dean Winchester. He can help." 

"He cannot," Castiel sighed, and his eyes slid away, closing. 

Jehoel hated himself for it, but he pushed down on the wound under his hands. The skin felt warm and the blood slippery, but Jehoel was not about to lose Castiel to unconsciousness again. Castiel hissed and tried to pull away but he was weak, and that worried Jehoel even more. "Please, brother," he begged. "I can think of no one else on Earth. Just tell me how to contact him?"

There had to be some spell, or some messenger he could use. How else could Castiel have kept in contact with the Winchesters? They remained hidden from angels, and Jehoel has heard that it was Castiel himself who hid them, even from himself. 

"I still have my cell phone," Castiel replied, his eyes mostly closed. Slowly, Castiel reached into the pocket of his coat, wincing as the movement pulled at his injuries. He drew out something that Jehoel had never seen in his life, small and silver and black. Human technology. 

Castiel looked at the object strangely, as though he couldn't quite remember why he was holding it anymore, but before Jehoel could ask how to use it, what he had to do, Castiel's eyes slid fully closed and his vessel became lax and unresponsive, and no amount of cajoling could wake him.

Picking up the thing cautiously, Jehoel decided that if a human could use it, then an angel certainly could.

*** 

Hunt followed hunt, mile are after mile of creatures more powerful than they should be, age-old habits all out of whack and tried-and-tested ways of killing them ineffective. They weren't getting any help from On High, and a whole lot too much interest from Downstairs and all Dean had to rely on was Sam. And Sam was about as reliable as a vampire in a blood bank. So yeah, Dean's life was fucked up. 

Sometimes, Dean realised the strangeness of it. After a year in the suburbs, doing normal things, Dean had some reference from which he could look and see exactly how far from civilian life they really were. How far outside of what most people considered reality they were. 

Dean couldn't even decide if he missed it; that everyday repetition where nothing unusual, nothing _life-threatening_ happened. Somehow he'd known, deep inside, that there was no way that kind of life could last. Not for Dean Winchester. 

Castiel had once told him that good things do happen, but Dean had yet to see much evidence of it. From what Dean had seen of Cas lately he wondered if the idiot angel even believed it anymore. And thinking about Cas these days just led absolutely nowhere. 

The only guy in all creation who might actually have Dean's back and he wasn't around. 

There’d been a time when Dean had liked driving along these long stretches between jobs. It'd been something simple, something he could control, where he could relax and just feel his car and the road under him and his brother next to him and know they were both, for as long as they drove, safe. The silence between him and Sam, now, was just a reminder of everything that was wrong. Tension made worse by the fact that there was nothing Dean could do about it, and that Sam didn't even notice there was anything _wrong_.

He was almost glad when his cell rang- something to break up the monotony and the constant feeling of _wrongness_ \- thinking maybe it was Bobby with some news, or at least a new hunt. But when he took his eyes off the road for just a moment to look at the screen, what he saw almost made him crash the damn car. 

"The hell?" 

Dean frowned, and saw Sam looking at him with his fake look of concern. He raised an eyebrow and Dean thought that the interest was real, at least. 

"Cas," Dean said, and Sam actually looked surprised. 

"Wow."

"Yeah." 

Staring at Cas's name on his phone, Dean considered not answering. It wasn't like the bastard ever answered when Dean called. Still, he might have found something out, and there was always the opportunity to bitch Cas out if he hadn't, which was pretty much about the extent of their relationship these days. 

Dean wondered if he should pull over for this conversation. There weren't many cars out this time of the morning, but still, he wanted all his concentration for this. 

Making his decision, Dean pulled over sharply, so that Sam had to put a hand against the dash to stop himself being thrown forward. Sam didn't make any comment.

It was weird, but as soon as Dean answered the phone he knew something was wrong. 

There was a long silence, so long that Dean thought that maybe Cas's phone was still in Cas's pocket and had somehow accidentally dialled Dean, and any minute Dean was going to be assaulted with the high-pitched screeching of angels in their true forms. Except mostly all Dean could hear was breathing, and maybe some shuffling and clicking, like the phone being moved around.

"You gonna say something?" he asked. 

Then, "Hello," and no way that was Cas's voice. Much higher, the voice sounded almost afraid, and definitely panicked. "Hello?" whoever it was said again. "Is this working? Is that Dean Winchester? Please tell me it's Dean Winchester."

"Who's this?" Dean asked carefully, trying not to think what someone else having Cas's phone could mean. Someone who knew Dean's name.

"My name is Jehoel. I serve Castiel. You are Dean Winchester?"

Dean ignored the question. "Where's Cas?"

"He's injured, and I don't know what to do. You'll help me won't you? Please tell me you'll help me."

The guy sounded convincing, and Dean shoved down the sick feeling in his stomach at the thought of Cas so busted up he couldn’t contact Dean himself. But Dean knew all too well just how good demons- and angels- were at lying. 

"Let me talk to Cas."

"I can't..." The guy on the other end of the line broke off, tried again, "He's not awake. He won't stay awake. Please, Dean Winchester. You're the only one I could think would help us."

It reminded Dean of a time when Cas had come to Dean for aid, because there was no one else. This stranger had that same frustrated irritation, but also distress. Fear. But none of it made any sense. 

"What do you expect me to do?" Dean asked. There were so many reasons not to get involved in messed up angel business, if that was what it even was. 

"I don't _know_ ," the stranger told him. "I know nothing of Earth, and nothing about vessels, and I don't want to leave Castiel. We are unprotected here."

Fuck, but the guy sounded like he was about to burst into tears. If it really was one of Cas's followers, then Cas really needed to get better help. If they were all like that then the world was doomed.

He still hadn't a clue what this angel expected him to do, but forgetting for a second all the recent crap between them, Dean did owe Cas. There was no way he could take the chance that Castiel was dying somewhere with only some useless, panicking idiot for help. Dean didn't pretend to know what was going on with Heaven, but he was fairly certain Cas dying would not be good. 

And even if it didn’t feel like it most of the time, Cas had become one of them somewhere along the line. 

On the other end of the line, whatever-his-name-was had started pretty much begging. "Castiel would only trust you," he said and "The other angels might have followed us," and "I can't let him _die_."

There was no ignoring that.

Dean asked, "Where are you?" and that was how Dean met Jehoel.

*** 

Never before had time seemed like such a tedious thing. Never before, that he could remember, had Jehoel even thought about time at all. It was a human invention, meaningless to angels who had all the time in creation at their disposal. They knew it as what had happened, what was happening, and what would happen. Anything else was arbitrary.

Except where Jehoel had taken such a very long time to work out what to press on the telephone to make it work that Castiel's blood was dry against his neck and his vessel's clothes were saturated with it. Jehoel pressed down on what wounds he could, closing them as much as he knew how, but healing was not something cherubs knew much about. They knew love and friendship, companionship and the human heart. They didn't know what to do when that heart began to slow, its rhythm becoming erratic.

And then to have to wait for Dean Winchester's arrival, because he refused to tell Jehoel where he was and because he wanted to _drive_ to them was pure torture. Waiting had never felt like this before. Like torment, every passing moment increasingly interminable and un _ending_.

"Why do you trust him?" Jehoel asked, when he could no longer stand the quiet, filled only with the sound of Castiel's uneven, painful breaths. When he could no longer bear to sit and do nothing any longer. Jehoel held Castiel's head in his hands, trying to soothe him with his Grace and with a hand stroking through his human hair. It was soft, Jehoel thought. "He would not let me bring him."

Castiel was only half-awake, but this he heard. "He doesn't know you," he said, and Jehoel became even more worried because his words slurred together. 

They weren't far, Dean Winchester had said. They wouldn't take long. But it _felt_ like it'd been eons, and now the sun was setting and Jehoel didn't think he liked the dark very much. He was scared, he realised. He was scared for Castiel, and for himself, and he was scared that he didn't know what was going to happen next. 

Castiel's human eyes were unfocused and his Grace was dimming by the time the Winchesters finally arrived. No matter how much of his own Jehoel offered, Castiel would not _take_ and Castiel won every argument Jehoel tried to make, every method he could think to urge Castiel to allow him to help, by virtue of closing his eyes and not responding. 

It was, Jehoel decided, very unfair.

He was scared, too, of Dean Winchester. Jehoel didn't really know what to expect because Castiel would speak of him only rarely and he wasn't given to spying on humans as some of his brothers and sisters were. Really, he didn't know what to expect. 

Jehoel was even _more_ afraid of Dean Winchester when he finally came face-to-face with the human. As soon as he set foot inside the room, he brandished a weapon and a bottle of what smelled like holy oil at Jehoel menacingly. 

They were in a motel, Jehoel had learned when he'd been trying to explain where they were. It was a human place, obscure and unimportant, and Jehoel could see why Castiel had chosen it.

"Why are the lights off?" Dean Winchester asked, and Jehoel didn't understand because he had no control over the _sun_. And then there was light of a different kind; a glowing, artificial thing that made his human eyes hurt. Jehoel pulled Castiel closer. It may have been some time since Jehoel had interacted with humans, but he knew at once from his soul and his heart that this was Dean Winchester. In his arms, Castiel stirred and it was the most movement he had made for a long while.

"Dean," he called, and Jehoel watched, strangely fascinated, as Dean Winchester took in the sight of Castiel, his eyes widening and his lips thinning out into a tense line. He glanced behind him, back towards the door, and for the first time Jehoel noticed the other Winchester brother. It was strange, he thought, how he hadn't even noticed him before. 

His attention returning to Castiel, Dean approached slowly, still cautious. "You okay, Cas?"

Castiel let out a long breath. "I have been better." It was more mumbled then anything and Jehoel wondered if Dean Winchester could even hear him. 

It seemed he could, because he replied, "Yeah," and crouched down beside them, laying the oil on the floor but not his weapon. It made no sense, Jehoel thought, that he would discard the one thing that could actually do him harm. Sam Winchester, though, stood tall and alert behind them. 

Castiel opened his eyes as much as he seemed able and Jehoel could tell that he was trying to focus on Dean Winchester. The human stared right back, and Jehoel was sure Castiel actually relaxed a little, like the pain was less. Or perhaps he just felt safer now, with someone who knew how to fight and how to defend them. 

"I've done what I could," Jehoel offered, because there didn't seem to be any end to the look his brother and Dean Winchester were sharing. "We've been here too long. I should like to leave."

He was ignored.

Instead, Dean Winchester placed a hand lightly on the shoulder of Castiel's vessel, moving fabric aside to look at his wounds. Methodically, efficiently he checked Castiel's arms and neck and chest. "Who is this guy?" he asked, glancing up at Castiel.

"Jehoel. He is my most trusted ally. You can trust him." 

To hear Castiel speak of him this way made Jehoel's stomach strangely warm, his face hot. To be called ally and trusted, when Castiel never seemed to trust anyone, was such a very great honour.

"He's an angel," was Dean Winchester's reply, and it sounded like an accusation. 

"A cherub," Castiel confirmed, and Jehoel was surprised to see Dean Winchester grin.

"Seriously? He's wearing clothes."

Jehoel wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean, but he didn't like being talked about as though he wasn't there, and he didn't want to stay in the same place any longer.

"My vessel has clothes," Jehoel said irritably. "Now please can we leave."

At that Dean Winchester actually looked at him, and he didn't look amused any more. There was suspicion written on his face. "Some of this is half-healed." He gestured to Castiel's chest. The bleeding had stopped, but some of the wounds had become red and inflamed. There was only so much Jehoel knew how to do against heavenly weapons. "You do that?" Dean Winchester asked.

"Yes."

"He doesn't know how to do more," Castiel said, then turned his head slowly to look up at Jehoel. "You did everything you could."

Dean Winchester watched him for another long moment, his gaze still unfriendly, but maybe a little less hostile. Jehoel squirmed under the attention.

"I can't fly with him," he explained, and had no idea why he suddenly felt nervous. "I couldn't leave him to get help. We just need to hide, somewhere safe, while he heals."

Again, Dean Winchester glanced down at Castiel like he was looking for affirmation, and Castiel nodded, once, before his eyes closed. 

Jehoel understood; Dean Winchester had little reason to trust angels, considering the way he had been lied to and all the things that were once asked of him in the name of Heaven. It was cruel and it was unfair, and even now there was reticence in the way the human looked at Castiel, like he wasn't quite sure of him, either. 

For a moment, Jehoel considered the possibility that Dean Winchester was going to refuse to help them, and Jehoel didn't know what he would do then. But then Dean Winchester said, "Fine," and slid a hand around the back of Castiel's shoulders, finally putting his weapon away and using both hands to haul Castiel up into a seated position.

Castiel hissed in pain, but made no complaint.

"Help me get him to the car," Dean ordered, and Jehoel obeyed.

***

**Rest**

Castiel awoke in Dean's car. 

He didn't need to open his eyes to know where he was. The smell of leather and exhaust fumes and _Dean_ would have been enough, but Castiel could also hear the steady roll of the engine, the feel of it under his back. 

His head was lying, he realised, against someone's thigh. From the curled power beneath it, the proximity of Grace, Castiel thought it had to be Jehoel. His friend was also arguing with Dean, and it was _loud_.

"If you would just tell me where we were going," Jehoel asked, and he sounded truly annoyed, which was really something of an achievement for a cherub.

From further away, Dean replied curtly, "No."

Castiel supposed he was driving. 

Jehoel gave a very deep sigh, and Castiel felt Jehoel's arms tighten around his shoulders. 

Castiel would have reassured Dean that Jehoel would not betray them. That he was safe. He would have asked Dean to trust Jehoel as he trusted Castiel- though now, with this war and with Sam as he was, and with all the other hundred things between them- Castiel was no longer sure of how much Dean trusted in his judgment. 

He would have spoken, but he was tired and the car felt safe, a place he could finally rest, and before Castiel could bring himself to speak he had fallen to sleep. 

When he awoke for the second time, Castiel was no longer in the car, but instead felt a bed beneath him, iron walls around him, surrounded by the power of sigils he had once drawn with his own blood and his own hand. 

Bobby's. 

The cuts that had been made in his Grace and in his body were finally healed to a point at which they no longer caused him such pain that it was hard to think, and Castiel was glad that he had not been conscious for most of that time. Still, his limbs felt stiff and heavy, his head hurt; the damage to his angel self manifest in his human body. 

His shoulders felt cold, exposed, and Castiel realised that someone had removed his coat and jacket and shirt. Castiel could feel bandaging wrapped around his arms and hands and around his chest. That had to have been Dean's doing, because Jehoel would not have known how, or even that it was necessary. There was a scratchy blanket covering him, and Castiel wondered at the sensations, at how weakened he was.

Close by, Dean and Jehoel were arguing again, in low voices, and Castiel wondered if that was what had caused the pain in his head. 

"I won't leave," Jehoel was saying. There was anger in his tone. 

"We don't need you here," Dean hissed back, and from the annoyance in his voice Castiel thought the argument must have been going on for a long time. "Bobby doesn't want you here."

"I do not care what you want," Jehoel shot back stubbornly. 

His loyalty was always a source of strength for Castiel, but Castiel could also understand Dean's reluctance. Even so, Castiel had neither the strength nor the patience to deal with their differences.

"I would prefer if neither of you were here," Castiel cut in before Dean could argue back. His mouth was dry, and he did not think about the last time he had felt thirst. It was a time he did not like to remember. 

Slowly, wearily, Castiel opened his eyes. There was little light in the room, but he could still see Jehoel and Dean by the half-open door staring at him. 

It was Dean who spoke first. "Cas." He began moving towards Castiel, Jehoel following behind. "Didn't realise you were awake."

"It is difficult to rest with you two arguing." 

Jehoel looked contrite, but Dean just frowned. Castiel didn't miss the way his eyes flicked to Jehoel. 

"I told you," Castiel said, because as much as he could sympathise with Dean's mistrust, he had already assured Dean once. "Jehoel is loyal, and is no threat to you."

"I wasn't worried about us." Dean shook his head. "He wouldn't tell us what happened to you."

"And you wouldn't tell him where we were going," Castiel pointed out. He turned to Jehoel. "Would you leave us? I am safe here, and we should have returned to Heaven some time ago. You know the orders I meant to give." 

It bothered Castiel that he was not actually sure how much time had passed since the fight. Since they had run to a motel which Castiel had once stayed in with Dean and Sam. It was impossible to even tell the time of day hidden within Bobby's panic room. 

Jehoel didn't look convinced. "Are you sure? This place is-" 

"I set the wards myself," Castiel said.

"The others won't-"

"Explain to them." Castiel reached out to take his brother's hand. "They will follow you."

It would, Castiel thought, be a good thing for a cherub to lead. For someone else to have authority in Heaven.

"If you're sure-" Jehoel looked to Castiel's hand on his, held his human fingers tightly. "I could send help."

"I will heal here." 

He gave a blessing, the oldest and strongest he could think of, and Jehoel nodded his head and wished him well. "And to Dean Winchester," Jehoel added. "May he be well, so that he might look after you and stop being so stubborn." 

And with that he flew, leaving Dean frowning into the empty space, and leaving Castiel's hand to fall to the bed. 

"I don't get angels," Dean said, and he wouldn't meet Castiel's eyes. "I can't trust them."

Castiel had suspected it, but it still hurt to hear.

"And now that I have returned to Heaven-"

Dean didn't reply, but Castiel could see it in the way Dean turned away. He looked towards the door, as though he was considering leaving. 

"Then why help us?" Castiel asked.

"I helped _you_. I'm not that much of an asshole."

There was an awkward silence, Castiel unable to decide what he should say, if it would not be best to remain silent and leave things as they were. But they had barely spoken since Castiel had returned to Heaven, and it was as though during that time they had forgotten how to be friends. 

"Dean." Castiel would have liked nothing more than to rest, to let go of the world for a while and heal, but this too was something that needed to be taken care of. He didn't want for this coldness and distance and mistrust to remain between them. There were so few opportunities for them now to have anything more than moments together. 

They rarely talked to each other about anything beyond business, necessities, but that was Dean's way, and it was also Castiel's. For them, their friendship had always been in the way they worked together, in the way there was trust between them when they fought at each other's side. In the way Dean looked at Castiel and Castiel looked back and neither of them had to explain it. 

"You should sleep, or whatever it is you do now." Dean turned back towards Castiel, looking him over with an unreadable expression.

"I haven't changed," Castiel told him because, in essence, he hadn't and at times it felt as though Dean treated him like a stranger.

"You have," Dean argued. 

Castiel tried to meet Dean's eyes, wanting him to understand. "I still remember everything." 

What it was to be human; to hunger and to want and to feel uncertain and alone. What it was like to be hopeless and helpless. These things Castiel still felt, sometimes. 

Before, when Castiel had wanted to make a point, to make sure that Dean understood, he would have stood close- uncomfortably so for Dean- so that he couldn't look away or ignore Castiel. Castiel thought that perhaps this was what he needed to do now, and attempted to push himself upright. He could not even sit up before his half-healed wounds pulled in a way that _hurt_. 

"Idiot," Dean chastised. "Lay back down." 

As pathetic and irritated at himself as Castiel felt, it did at least bring Dean closer, who perched himself on the edge of the bed and pushed Castiel back down.

It was embarrassingly easy. 

With anyone else, Castiel would have been ashamed to be so weak, but Dean had seen worse of him, and if there was one place in the universe Castiel could feel safe it was here. This was something Castiel could never forget.

From his attempts to move, the uncomfortable blanket had fallen to Castiel's waist.

"I feel cold," he told Dean, and was pleased when Dean breathed a laugh and smiled, just a small thing, but real.

"Dick," Dean said fondly, and pulled the blanket up over Castiel's shoulders. "Shut up and go to sleep."

Nothing had been resolved. Nothing had changed, and maybe that was the point.

They were the people they had always been; angel and human and neither of them having much use for sentimentalities. Dean was here, sitting beside Castiel, and he stayed even when Castiel closed his eyes and sought rest. The warmth of Dean's body beside Castiel's meant more than any words he could ever have said.

***


	2. The Tragedy

Hunting angels wasn't like hunting other supernatural beings.

For one, they were way more powerful than pretty much anything hunters had ever encountered before, and they were _sneaky_. 

Dean should've seen it, in the way Castiel sidestepped rules even though he maintained they were absolute. In the way Zachariah used whatever he could to influence Dean. In the way Michael was so sure of himself, so sure he would win. It should have been a clue, Dean thought, that they were all related to _Lucifer_. 

And that was the other weird thing because when it came down to it Dean was hunting Castiel's brothers and sisters. Sometimes, if he thought about it like that, he felt like an asshole and the shittiest friend in history. 

But Crowley asked- no, _ordered_ \- and so they obeyed. 

"There are fewer and fewer of the feathery freaks on Earth every day," Crowley said. "Your angel boyfriend is sending them all to their rooms to think about what they've done."

The demon bastard wanted an angel for his collection, and helping him felt a lot like betrayal. 

The worst thing, though, was Sam. 

"We should ask Cas," he suggested, and Dean stared at his brother in- he wasn’t sure what- shock? Horror maybe? Because Dean did not want to think that Sam was so far gone he'd offer up Cas as sacrificial lamb. Then again, he'd offered up his own _brother_. 

It shouldn't have surprised him, but it still did. Every fucking time. 

"We are not handing over Cas," Dean told him, and tried to make it sound final. No arguments. End of discussion.

Yeah. Like that would ever work. "Why not?" Sam asked.

"Because we are not handing over our friend to a freaking demon!" That Dean even had to explain it burned.

Sam shook his head. "It won't be like that. We tell Cas what we‘re doing. I know he'd agree if you asked him. Then he could find out what Crowley's really trying to do."

"And how would we help him, if it went wrong?" Dean demanded. "What if there _isn't_ anything more to Crowley's evil master plans than him being a douchebag Hitler wannabe?"

"Cas can take care of himself," Sam insisted. 

"Like he did when the other angels ripped him to pieces? Like he did when Lucifer killed him? Or when Raphael killed him?"

It still made Dean mad to think that Cas’s own family could do that to him. Dean remembered the blood and the long, deep cuts, and how all Castiel had was a scared, clueless cherub called Jeff to help him.

Sam gave him a weird look, like Dean was some fascinating new species of insect.

"Yeah. I remember." 

Dean didn't like the way Sam spoke, like he'd just worked something out. 

"Good. We're not hunting Cas. We're not asking him." 

Dean would like to have told Sam they weren't hunting angels at all, because there was no way that could end well, but Crowley threatened and he made promises Dean knew he'd never keep. Like, "Get me a shiny holy angel and I'll give you Sam's soul," and "Don't get me an angel and I'll make sure you never see Sam's soul ever again."

Dean hated the way Sam didn't look all that bothered by the prospect. 

Lately, Dean'd gotten the feeling that Sam was starting to think having a soul was more of a burden than it was worth. Dean could get that, because all a soul meant was pain and guilt and doubt, but the thought of his brother like this, permanently stuck in a cycle of hunt-rinse-repeat, never getting to have Sam back to the way he used to be, made Dean sick. 

It occurred to Dean that he'd better warn Cas, in case Sam went behind his back and trapped Cas to hand him over anyway. That really fucking hurt. Cas trusted them both with the tools to hunt and to hurt his own kind, and using them to track and capture other angels was not something Dean was comfortable with. Sam would call him sentimental, or some shit, but then Sam wasn't Sam anymore.

When Sam was out doing not-Sam things, Dean called Cas.

***

"You answered." 

It was late, but Dean didn't expect Sam to be back that night. From what he knew of angels he guessed it didn’t make much difference what time of day it was. If it was dark or light. Except Cas's little minion guy, apparently, hadn't liked the nighttime. When they'd dragged Cas out to the car that first time they'd met, with Cas clenching his teeth in pain, Jeff had not liked the absence of the sun at all, shying away from the light of the moon like it physically hurt him. It was weird. Dean would've pegged cupids for night lovers- being the time for romance- or something. But who the hell knew? Angels were freaky and made no sense most of the time.

Cas replied, "I answered. What is it you need?"

Dean had to wonder is the new, more helpful Castiel was his way of saying thanks for saving his ass. It hadn't been long since Dean had walked in on him half-dead, and the last time Dean had seen Cas he'd still been noticeably slower in the way he moved, tiredness showing in his eyes. His little minion had come too, hovering nervously at Cas's side. He wasn't there now.

"You lose your fanboy?" 

They'd based themselves at a slightly more upscale motel than usual, and it came with a refrigerator full of beer. Dean moved to pull two bottles out, handing one out to Castiel. 

It was, Dean had to admit, an invitation, and Cas took it, moving right up into Dean's space. 

"He is not my fanboy," Cas said, twisting the bottle cap off with his right hand without even looking down. Holding Dean's gaze again. Dean wondered what Cas would do if, just once, Dean didn't stare right back. 

"Looked like it to me." Dean tipped his own beer towards Cas, and was stupidly pleased when Cas actually got the message and pulled the cap off his bottle too. 

It bothered him, that some helpless cherub could go places with Cas he couldn't. That he was all Cas had to watch his back when Dean wasn't there. 

"Does he even know how to fight?"

"All angels know how to fight." 

Right. Angels were soldiers. He'd heard it before, even if Dean couldn't quite believe it when he remembered the naked, hugging angel. Or Gabriel. 

"But," Castiel said, still not moving away, the bottle of beer held awkwardly in his hand. Dean wondered if he meant to drink it. "You didn't call me here to talk about Jehoel."

Dean nodded, taking a step back and turning away, because he was pretty sure that Cas wasn't going to like what he had to say. _Dean_ didn't like what he had to say. Taking a long pull from the drink he wondered how Cas would take it. It wasn't like they'd actually _agreed_ to anything. 

"Dean," Cas urged, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Crowley's looking for angels," Dean said.

It was, Dean had often found, a whole lot easier just to get it all out in one try than to sugarcoat anything. And what the hell was he so worried about anyway? He hadn't _done_ anything. It was just, he kind of knew how he'd feel if someone told him they were hunting his family. Maybe. 

"He's got the Campbell's in on it." Dean paused and took another pull on his drink, because this sucked to admit. "Sam thought we should ask you to give yourself up to Crowley. Find out what he's really up to."

For a long while Cas didn't say anything, and his expression remained blank, and it made Dean really freaking nervous. 

"I told him no."

"It's a sound strategy," Cas remarked.

Dean didn't even think before he was telling Cas, " _Hell_ no." He pointed at Castiel, like it might make him more convincing. "There is no way you are giving yourself up to Crowley. I don't give a crap how strategically brilliant the idea is."

Cas raised his eyebrows, and Dean didn't have a clue what that was supposed to mean. "I wasn't suggesting it, Dean," Cas assured him. "I was just commenting that Sam's thinking is logical. I understand why he came to this conclusion."

Yeah, and now Dean looked like a psycho or something. He didn't even know what he'd been thinking. 

Maybe that was the point; that he _hadn't_ been thinking. 

He'd been reacting to the thought of Cas being in Crowley's nasty demon hands. Torturing him. Dean had already seen enough of Cas's blood in the last few weeks, and Dean wasn't going to be embarrassed because he didn't want to see his friend get ripped to shreds when they'd just put him back together.

"Right. Good," Dean said. 

They stood in the motel room, Dean drinking from his beer and Cas not drinking from his, not looking at each other anymore, and Dean wondered when the fuck things had gotten weird between them.

Maybe it was when Cas had died and been brought back as angelic overlord. Maybe it was when Cas was a dick who didn't answer Dean's calls. Sam's calls. 

Or maybe it was when Dean had walked into a dingy motel room in Illinois to find Cas lying in a red mess of his own blood as it seeped into the carpet. What the hell did he know. 

"You think... the Campbells will try to hunt angels," Cas said after a long silence, and Dean appreciated the offered change of conversation. It was sometimes kind of cool, Dean thought, that they were both so useless at emotional crap. At talking about shit. 

Dean knew that one day something was going to have to change. Maybe it already had, when Dean had hung out while Cas was knitting himself back together, making sure no one could get near enough to hurt him. 

It wasn't hard to understand, Dean told himself. He'd never really had many people he cared about, so whenever he did find someone he maybe liked sometimes he hung onto them. Cas might've been an asshole angel, but he was an asshole angel who'd died for him, and fought with him, and stayed with him, and with Sam, and if there was anything in the world that meant something to Dean it was that. 

Dean wasn't about to let anyone get to Cas again, if he could help it. 

That would just be a waste of all his hard work keeping the bastard alive.

"They will, yeah," Dean agreed. "I don't know who, but I'll let you know if I hear anything."

Fuck, this sucked. "I should be able to keep Sam out of it," he added, and really hoped he could because Dean didn't know what he'd do if Sam betrayed him like this. Betrayed _Cas_. "He's kind of unpredictable."

"If it suits his purpose then he will be involved," Cas said sensibly. He didn't even seem that bothered. Except, then, he looked consideringly down at where he was holding the beer bottle, the condensed water dripping down onto his hand. "Though I would prefer if he didn't." 

Cas had been Sam's friend too, Dean guessed. The same way that Dean had been Sam's brother. It was hard to tell if that meant anything any more. 

Dean nodded his head towards Castiel's hand. "Drink your beer." 

Cas did.

***

Jehoel had noticed, in the short time he had known Dean Winchester, how much the human called to Castiel. 

Sometimes, if Jehoel was close enough, he could hear the echoes of Dean's prayers, and they were everything from pleading to irritated to teasing. It was, to Jehoel, disrespectful and inappropriate, except that Castiel didn't seem to mind. In the same way, he would not let other angels bow to him, or try to curry his favour. Castiel all but rejected the old ways of hierarchy and submissiveness. He encouraged others to speak their minds, and to criticise him. It was a dangerous thing to do, for there were still many angels who were more powerful than Castiel, and there were still angels who had once caused him very great pain- who had tortured him- but still Castiel listened. He didn't ignore them.

He did not ignore Dean Winchester either. 

Castiel might not always reply, or be able to go to Earth to assist him, but he would always listen. It was something Jehoel had never seen before- this strange companionship between man and angel. 

Jehoel thought it was something their Father would have approved of, even if some of the other angels did not.

Perhaps they were just jealous.

In any case, Dean Winchester prayed, and he called Castiel on his infernal cell phone, which, if Jehoel slept, he was sure he would have nightmares about. 

Once, Castiel- busy with a ragged, exhausted group of angels recently back from fighting Raphael's followers- asked Jehoel to answer the cursed thing as it rang and rang, even when it shouldn't have been able to even _exist_ within Heaven.

There was very little Jehoel could refuse Castiel, however.

"Cas," he heard as soon as he picked up. Dean sounded serious and harried. "You took freaking long enough to answer."

"Castiel is busy, Dean Winchester," Jehoel told him, carefully wrapping his voice in human vocal chords. 

"Fuck," Dean swore. "Jeff, that you?" 

It was a name Dean Winchester insisted on calling him since they had first met, and Jehoel couldn't decide if it was meant as an insult or not.

"Jehoel," Jehoel corrected, for perhaps the twentieth time. "Um." He tried to think of the ways in which he had seen humans talking on telephones. "Can I take a message?"

On the other end of the line Dean Winchester actually laughed. Jehoel didn't think he'd ever caused anyone or anything to laugh before. He wasn't even sure what was funny.

"Jeff, dude," Dean Winchester said, "You're really rocking the PA gig, huh." 

For the most part, Jehoel had no clue what Dean meant. 

"I... don't know?" he tried, and Dean Winchester laughed even more.

It made Jehoel oddly pleased, because there really wasn't much joy to be had in his world anymore, where once there had only been love. It was a good sound, Jehoel remembered, and listened, hoping that perhaps in the future he could have this again. Perhaps, he thought, this was why Castiel spent what time he could spare talking to this human; to remember what it felt like to have something in their lives other than war and anger and hatred. 

Eventually, Dean Winchester's laugh trailed off, and he coughed as though he were clearing his throat. "For an angel, you're not that bad," Dean said, and Jehoel was fairly sure that was a compliment.

"Thank you," he replied. He wondered if was supposed to tell Dean he was not bad either, but Dean was already asking, "Can you get Cas? It's kind of important I talk to him now." 

Looking over, Castiel was ordering the uninjured members of the garrison out into the field again. Another rising, more weapons that could kill angels, and humans. Never before since the First War had so many of their kind died. It was a sobering thought.

"He will be finished shortly," Jehoel told Dean Winchester.

"Things as crazy up there as they are down here?" Dean asked. He too sounded serious now. Weary. 

Jehoel hesitated before speaking, but he thought that if anyone could help it would be Dean Winchester. "Castiel believes we are losing," he admitted. 

Dean asked, "Are you?"

With a surety borne of belief, of faith- and now Jehoel knew the difference between that and wishful thinking- he knew the reality of their position. How it wasn't so much that they were outnumbered but they were far less willing to destroy their brothers than their opposition was intent on killing every last one of _them_. He knew how hard Castiel fought.

"No," Jehoel replied, without hesitation and without doubt.

***

Hunting angels wasn't like hunting at all. 

Their power, their motivations, the fact that the age-old methods of hunters- salt, iron, holy water- had no effect on them. 

None of this seemed to deter the Campbells- or what was left of them- from trying.

Dean knew they were getting tips from Crowley; incantations and sigils that Dean guessed must be weapons of Hell rather than the angelic means Cas had shown him because he didn't recognise any of them. Dean didn't understand how any of them could think it was a good idea to go after angels, much less trust _Crowley's_ methods.

It didn't surprise Dean when the Campbells failed to invite him to join their angel-hunting expeditions. 

Oh, he knew they tried. He heard about it from Gwen and from Sam, and from Cas, who sometimes called Dean to say he had _felt_ their spells and tricks, and Dean didn't like that the Campbells could even do that much, to be heard by angels. 

He forbade Sam from telling any of their so-called family about the Enochian magic Cas had taught them, or about the holy oil they still had in the trunk of the Impala. A lot of the time Dean was tempted to dump it, because he didn't know how far Sam would follow his instructions. He wasn't sure how easily Sam would go behind his back.

Hunting angels- or any kind of hunting for Crowley- was a completely different thing to what they'd done their whole lives. It wasn't about helping people or saving lives anymore. It had become selfish, servitude, something that left Dean feeling vaguely ill because what kind of hunter could take orders from a demon and _not_ kind of want to puke. 

As far as Dean could tell, the angels didn't actively set out to kill random humans. They were too preoccupied with their own shit, and from what Dean had seen, they didn't much care about humanity one way or the other. Humans posed no threat to them, had pretty much nothing they wanted. Dean knew that Cas, at least, did what he could to keep people out of his war, even if at times he kind of failed at it.

As much as Dean thought most angels were self-righteous assholes, they weren't out to kill people for the fun of it. Dean got the impression most of them would rather not be on Earth at _all_. 

And Dean was pretty sure that Grandpa Campbell was way out his depth in thinking he could do this without retribution. He was even more convinced this was going to end monumentally badly when Sam told him he'd heard the Campbells were gunning for an archangel. 

"We could help," Sam tried, and Dean knew he was thinking of Gabriel and holy oil. 

"No," Dean told him, and hoped to fuck it stuck.

He called Cas anyway, and ended up speaking to Cas's minion angel. Dean seemed to be getting through to him more than to Cas these days, and Dean wondered how badly their war was going. Whenever Dean saw Cas he never asked, and Cas never offered any information, but from the tense set of Cas's shoulders and the way he always seemed distracted Dean guessed it wasn't going as well as Cas would've liked. 

If Dean knew how to be a better friend, maybe he'd offer Cas some encouragement or sympathy or something, but what could you say to someone at war with his brothers? What kind of words could ever make that less shitty? So he said nothing.

"Raphael is the only remaining archangel," Cas said when Dean finally got him on the line. "It would be unwise to attempt to capture him."

Which was pretty fucking obvious. 

"Would it help you out?" Dean asked, thinking he could at least offer this.

Cas was silent for a long pause before he replied, "Raphael might be my enemy, but he is still my brother and I won't let him fall to Hell."

There really wasn't anything Dean could say to that, and Cas realised it too because he began, "Dean-"

"If I find anything else I'll let you know," Dean interrupted and shut the call off. He knew Castiel hadn't meant it as a reference to Sam, but Dean couldn't help but take it that way. Because Dean had let Sam fall to Hell. He'd let Sam do that to himself. So now, the way Sam was- soulless and not-Sam anymore- it was Dean's own damn fault, and Dean meant to set it right. He just had to work out how, without letting anyone else end up in Hell. If there was one thing Dean and Cas could agree on, it was that not even a self-righteous prick like Raphael deserved to end up in Hell. Except maybe where he'd once blown Cas up into little pieces. 

Dean didn't have to wait long before he had something else to call Cas about. Of all people, Dean hadn't expected the intel' to come from Sam. 

"Crowley showed them a summoning spell, and a way to trap an angel. Said it worked in Hell," Sam told him one hot afternoon somewhere in Kentucky. "They're going to use it."

The Campbells. Maybe havina a talent for getting in over their heads ran in the family.

"This isn't Hell," Dean pointed out.

"No," Sam agreed, shrugging. "Crowley thinks it's close enough."

He would. 

"Why'd you tell me?" Dean asked, because last he'd heard Crowley was promising pretty much anything for a piece of angel, and Dean couldn't see how Sam's soulless thought process could've let that go.

Sam shrugged again. "I figure Cas is a better ally than Crowley."

"No kidding," Dean scoffed.

"And you'd kill me if I let Crowley get anywhere close to the angels. Or Castiel."

And Dean did not like the pointed way Sam emphasised Cas's name. 

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Sam laughed. "You can't seriously not have noticed." Sam shook his head. "You've been all about him since we found him in that motel room."

"I haven't been _all about_ anyone." 

"Sure," Sam drawled, disbelieving and sarcastic and what the fuck did Sam know anyway. It wasn't like he even gave a crap.

"Whatever." Dean wasn't getting into this conversation with Sam, or anyone. Because there wasn't a conversation to _have_. "Just tell me where and when this is gonna happen."

When it came down to it, even if Sam hadn't known, the warehouse would've been impossible to miss.

By the time they arrived, the entire building was crackling with electricity, dancing blue and silver and blinding across the walls and punching through glass like it was paper. Dean parked the Impala a ways off, afraid of damage, wanting the car to start if they needed to beat a hasty retreat. 

There was a storm building above them, the clouds thick and grey, blotting out what should have been a clear sunset. The air felt heavy, expectant, like the pause before rain and thunder and lightning and Dean knew this _had_ to be Raphael. 

Sam and Dean walked the last few feet to the building, careful of the electricity vaulting and snaking its way out from the warehouse, extending across the uneven ground. 

The door they needed to go just _had_ to be made of metal.

Great.

Dean prayed to Cas, "Angels are immune to high voltage, right?" which was apparently enough these days to get Cas to show. 

"Yes," Cas said from somewhere close behind Dean, making him jump and swear, "Fucking _hell_ , Cas. How many damn times do I have to tell you not to do that!"

Like pretty much every other time Dean'd said it Cas ignored him, looking with narrowed eyes to the warehouse. "They are attempting to restrain Raphael." 

"Yeah." Dean thought he could hear thunder, but couldn't decide if it was coming from a distance or from inside the building. 

Night was falling fast now and it was starting to rain, a light, cool shower that promised to be one hell of a lot more. 

Behind Castiel stood Jeff, looking scared and worried and kind of ill, and Dean wondered why Cas had brought him at all. 

"Crowley's in there," Sam offered, and Castiel turned his intense eyes on his brother, searching his face for a long time before saying, "Thank you, Sam." 

Sam nodded, like it was nothing, but it gave Dean hope at least that Sam wasn't as gone as he'd thought. 

"We going in?" Dean asked. 

Cas looked to the door, the metal of it crackling and buckling like it was over-heated, straining outwards like something was trying to escape. Which, Dean guessed, was the truth. 

Cas said, "Yes," and strode towards the door, confident and maybe angry. The rain was really starting to come down now and Dean worried about all that water and all that electricity mixing together. 

None of it bothered Cas, who quickly reached the entrance and stretched out his hand, not touching the metal. The door slammed open. 

"We're not taking the stealthy approach then, I guess," Dean said dryly, and beside him Sam snorted. He'd taken out his handgun and had the barrel pointed down towards the ground, ready to fight. 

"Crowley, and Raphael, will know we're here already." Castiel walked through the open door way, and Jeff followed. "It is safe for you to enter," he assured them. 

"And Crowley hasn't sent anyone to stop us?" Sam asked, looking around warily like at any second something was going to jump out and attack them. It wasn't exactly unlikely, so Dean drew his own weapon, prepared to defend himself, and Sam and Cas. And probably Jeff too. 

Castiel hesitated, just for a second, but Dean caught the uncertainty. "I don't know."

Despite Cas's assurance, Dean eyed the door frame suspiciously, inching his way into the building and keeping close watch on the lightning bolts that hissed and fizzed all around it, sparking as rain hit them. He'd come this far, thought, and what the hell would be the point of coming if they were just going to hang around outside?

They'd come here to stop their dumbass family from getting involved in something that could only go bad. And Dean was here because he'd said he'd help Cas.

Sam brought up the rear, and Dean had to wonder about how much he could trust Sam to watch his back. 

Too late now though. They were inside, and it was darker than the nearly-night sky outside. And cold. One hell of a lot colder than it should've been in Kentucky somewhere at the beginning of summer. 

It was eerily quiet too; all Dean could hear was their own footsteps against the concrete ground, and the storm building outside. There was no lightning rushing across the walls here, and barely any light at all. Dean wished he'd brought the damn flashlight. 

Ahead of his, Cas slowed down, taking careful measured steps and looking around cautiously. 

They'd gone in blind, and that was never a good idea, but who the fuck knew what Crowley planned to do with Raphael, or what Raphael would do if he got out. Dean really hoped Cas, at least, had some idea what he was going to do. 

They walked through the large, open space of the entrance into a narrow hallway, following Castiel. None of them spoke, and Dean realised that he couldn't hear the footsteps of either of the angels. Just his and Sam's, and wind now, ratting through smashed windows somewhere close by. It was even darker in the hallway, and Dean raised his gun, squinting his eyes to try and see better. In this light his aim would be for shit. 

Suddenly, the silence was broken by a long, piercing shriek that made Dean's ears ache. It felt like angel-speak had, from when Cas had tried to talk to him without a body, but a whole lot worse. Dean could feel the anger, the fury in the sound. He could taste it in his mouth and knew it right down to his bones, like it was tearing itself right out of him. Trying to escape, Dean thought, and that was pretty much all he could think of, or knew about, until he felt hands- cold and unrelenting- pressing against his ears. 

The screeching stopped abruptly, and Dean was able to open his eyes. There was no sound at all, he realised. Complete silence, like he'd turned stone deaf, and Dean could feel wetness in his ears. Blood, he knew, and Dean wouldn't have been surprised if Raphael and his overachieving fucking voice hadn't ripped Dean's eardrums to shreds. They certainly hurt enough. Cas was right there in front of him though, hands covering Dean's ears, and Dean saw him mouth, "It's okay." 

Like hell it was. 

Dean's vision was still kind of fuzzy around the edges, and he was bent over in an awkward position, leaning heavily against the wall like he'd been trying to get away from the sound. As though curling in on himself would've helped at all. 

He couldn't see Sam. 

Standing up straight, Cas's hands followed, keeping his ears covered, and was immovable when Dean tried to pull away, shaking his head. "Raphael," he mouthed, and Dean guessed that maybe he wasn't deaf after all. That Cas was somehow blocking out the sound. 

Still, he had to know. "Sam?" he asked, and it was weird because Dean had no idea if he'd said it quiet or loud, or even if he'd made any sound at all. Cas seemed to understand though because he nodded and led Dean carefully further up the hallway, following it round a corner, and there was Sam and Jeff; Jeff looking kind of freaked out but stubborn with his hands clamped over Sam's ears, and Sam looking murderous. 

The four of them must've looked ridiculous, but the up-side at least had to be that no demons would be able to attack with the screechy angel soundtrack they had going on. On the not-so-good-side, it was going to be pretty damn difficult to get anywhere with angels attached to their ears. 

Dean watched as Castiel gave Jeff what he guessed was an encouraging nod, unconcerned with standing around going nowhere. Sam, having seen Dean and Cas, had stopped looking like he was ready to try and kill Jeff to get him off. Now he just looked frustrated, and for once Dean could sympathise. 

Reaching out, Dean squeezed Cas's forearm to get his attention, and said, or tried to say, "We can't hang out here all day." 

Dean tried not to notice the way Cas's thumb stroked over his ear, maybe healing the damage. It was weirdly calming, and out of place in a dirty, abandoned warehouse with his brother right there next to him. From the expression on Cas's face- thoughtful, determined, maybe even angry- you'd never guess Cas was doing anything so _gentle_. 

Dean watched as Cas carefully mouthed, "Wait," and looked back to Jeff. Maybe, Dean thought, it hadn't been a bad idea to bring the guy along after all. 

They didn't have to wait long before Castiel let his hands fall away from Dean's ears, nodding to Jeff to do the same. The absence left Dean's skin feeling cold, and the sound that rushed back in was almost too loud after the silence. 

"We should move quickly," Cas announced, and began moving away. 

When Dean put his fingers to his ears there was no blood. As far as he could tell, no damage. Sam rubbed at the side of his face like he was trying to get feeling back into his skin. 

If there'd been time, if they hadn't been against the clock here, Dean would've thanked Cas for saving his hearing. As it was, Cas and Jeff were already turning up the next corner and Dean hurried after him, Sam following. 

"That was Raphael?" Dean asked when he'd caught up.

"It was. It would have done damage to Crowley, and any humans close by." Cas's face was blank and cold, like maybe he thought they deserved whatever damage Raphael's voice had done to them. It was hard to disagree, family or not. Dean had _warned_ the Campbells not to fuck with the angels.

Cas was looking around curiously, seeing beyond the walls, Dean guessed. "To the demons guarding this place, also." 

That was a bonus, and might actually make this hunt-that-wasn't-a-hunt possible. Whatever it was Cas was planning to do. 

They turned another corner, Cas keeping the pace fast, and Dean trusted that he knew it was safe to move so quickly. More out of habit than anything, Dean kept his handgun trained on the hallway ahead, picking his way around rotting half-busted up furniture. 

Deeper in the warehouse there were more overhead lights that still worked, casting light on peeling walls, puddles that smelled like piss and stagnant water. There were more windows here too, some smashed or cracked, the glass grimy. It was raining like a bitch outside now, a whole lot of it getting in through the broken windows. Dean could hear thunder, loud, followed by lightning that flashed with an unnatural blue hue. It was creepy. 

Cas ignored the rain and the smell and the mess and headed straight for a set of double doors at the end of the hallway. Dean could tell from the power crackling over them and the weird flashes of colour he could see through the small windows set high in the doors that beyond them was what they'd come for.

"Jehoel," Castiel said, "I leave the Winchesters to you," and Dean would've protested at the implication he needed a freaking baby sitter, but Cas was already through the doors. The scene on the other side was pretty much what he'd expected. 

Raphael, standing in the centre of a circle that looked like it'd been painted in thick black tar, his electric wings wide and arched high over his head. The look on his face was _fierce_. After he'd already been caught by Cas once, Dean thought, Raphael had to be livid about being captured all over again. And this time by a demon.

Crowley. 

The bastard was standing not far from the perimeter of the circle. There was blood in his ears, and he looked like he was in pain. He held what looked a lot like one of those angel swords Cas carried. Something that could kill _Cas_ , and the idiot angel was striding right towards him. 

Out the corner of his eye Dean could see a handful of humans gathered in a corner, nursing their ears, but Dean couldn't look away from Cas because the bastard hadn't even taken out his own knife. He just bore down on Crowley, like he meant to use his fists to beat the crap out of the demon. 

Crowley was almost too late seeing Cas's approach, only able to dodge a blow by lashing out blindly with the angel knife at the last minute so that Castiel had to take a step back to avoid the point.

"Demon," Cas hissed, eyes narrowed, ready for the fight, following cautiously as Crowley backed away. 

"Far be if for me to spoil your fun," Crowley smirked in reply, less convincing than his usual smug attitude with red staining the sides of his face right down to the white of his expensive shirt. There was bite in his voice too, real hatred, and anger. "But I think this is my cue to leave." 

Castiel recklessly lunged forward, reaching out to grab the demon, but Crowley was too quick. The slick bastard was too well practised at running away and in a heartbeat he was gone, the angel sword the demon had been holding clattering to the concrete floor. 

For a long moment Cas stood with his back to them, looking at the space Crowley had occupied. 

Around them, Raphael's energy still lashed at the walls and the windows and the pipes. 

Raphael was watching Castiel's every move.

"Consorting with demons, Castiel? I would expect no less from you."

Cas said, "Get the humans out of here."

Jeff looked distraught, like this was not a good thing.

"What're you doing, Cas?" Dean demanded. 

It was freaking annoying how often Castiel just _ignored_ him.

Instead, Cas turned to Raphael. "We end this."

Drawing out his own sword, Cas made his way to the circle and knelt down at the edge of the dark lines. 

"I don't want to fight you, Raphael," he said. "I never did. But if you insist, I will kill you."

And Raphael actually laughed, so loud it echoed around the open room. There was no humour in it.

"Little brother, you are nothing. You cannot kill _me_."

Dean had seen what Raphael could do when he got his hands on Cas, and yeah, he kind of had to agree with Raphael on this one. 

"But I will try anyway." 

Dean didn't like the way Cas sounded resigned to this, and Dean remembered what it felt like to just want it all to be _over_. He remembered what it was like when he would've done anything to make it _stop_.

Dean should’ve seen it when Castiel said nothing about his war. He should've seen it in the way Jeff looked at Cas, full of concern and fear and sadness. Dean'd just thought it was a cupid thing, and he should've known; this was Castiel at the end of his patience, all out of options, and somehow coming to the conclusion that this was the only way to finish it. 

Close by, Sam was gathering up the Campbells, ushering them towards the doors. 

"Dean, let's go," Sam called back over his shoulder, but there was no way Dean was going to let it end like this, not after all the crap they'd been through and the ways they'd kept each other alive.

"Get them out of here, Sam," he instructed, and wished- another time out of a thousand- that the Sam he knew, _his Sam_ , was here with him. That Sam would understand. That Sam gave a crap about Cas. 

This Sam just nodded, and herded the others out.

A weight landed on Dean's shoulder as Castiel's blade came down against the outer line. The floor sparked and Cas's face was bent down to his work, concentration lining his features, lit up with red and orange and red in a way that reminded Dean of the light of Hell. 

"You must leave, also." Jeff stood at his side, and usually Dean would’ve shaken the touch off, but here was one being who might actually agree with him.

"We can't let him do this," Dean argued, trying not to sound too desperate. 

"We must," Jeff replied. "We must believe he can do this." 

Which was about as comforting as the way Raphael's fingers curled into fists. Dean was never going to understand this angel faith crap, and he was about to go over to Cas and pull the freaking sword out of his hand and _stop_ this when a blinding light, crackling power, filled the room and Dean knew Raphael was free.

Dean felt himself being pulled away, his side hitting a wall hard and hands covering his eyes as a wave of heat swept over him. It fucking _hurt_ even though it lasted only a second, and when it was over Dean was almost surprised to see all his limbs still attached, and no real damage. Jeff was arched over him protectively, and that would have been funny, if now Dean couldn't see Raphael and Cas going at it, their blades clashing loudly, slashing at each other viciously.

This wasn't like any of the angel fights Dean had seen. This was _meaner_. This was desperate, mad, Raphael on the offensive, their movements almost too fast for Dean to see. Cutting and slicing and tearing at each other and Raphael really meant to _hurt_ Cas. 

It would’ve been awesome to watch if Dean believed there was any way Cas could win this. It wasn't that Cas didn't have the skill; from the way he twisted away, met each of Raphael’s attacks with solid defence, kicking him away, drawing blood where he nicked the skin of Raphael's forearm and his leg, Dean knew Cas was strong and fast. He just didn't think Cas had the vitriol that Raphael did. The desire to really maim and kill. Even Dean could tell Cas was holding back, and from the feral, ugly grin on Raphael's face, the bastard knew it too. 

"Jesus fuck," Dean swore. 

He tried to pull away from Jeff, but even cupids had iron grips apparently because Dean couldn't get more than a couple of inches before Jeff pulled him back. 

"We have to stop this," Dean insisted, not quite believing that Jeff wasn't _helping_ him. "That dick is going to _kill_ Cas."

"He won't," Jeff replied, like he had no doubt. Fucking angels and their blind faith, and Dean had no time to convince the stubborn fool to let him go when Raphael was winning, cut by deep, cruel cut. 

Where Cas's hits were glancing blows, like warnings, Raphael was going for the freaking jugular every time. The archangel slashed across Cas's stomach and even in the flickering light, Raphael’s electric wings frying circuits and bulbs in a show of sparks, Dean could see the rip in Cas's shirt, the red staining the white cotton. 

Cas hissed and staggered back, and sensing the advantage Raphael pressed forward again, aiming at Cas's neck. He'd seen this before, and maybe that was an angel's weak point because there was something almost like panic in Cas's eyes as he reared away from the blade, twisting his entire body to the side. The point cut high into the muscles of his arm instead and Cas actually cried out. 

He didn't know what the hell he could even do, but Dean strained against Jeff's grip anyway, needing to do _something_. No way could he just watch Cas die here. What kind of friend was Jeff to just sit here and do fuck all anyway?

But then Jeff whispered, "He'll be all right," and when Dean turned to glare at the bastard, Jeff nodded his head towards Castiel's legs, and as Dean watched Castiel swept the feet right out from under Raphael. For something that could fly, Raphael went down heavily and Castiel was on him in a second, stabbing his sword down right into Raphael's shoulder, so deep that Dean heard the knife crack and split the concrete as it was driven straight through Raphael's body. Raphael's vessel, older than the others, but no less fierce and terrifying. 

Cas kicked away Raphael's sword and it skittered away across to the other side of the room, clanking noisily against concrete and metal.

Raphael howled and for a moment Dean thought he was going to get his ears messed up all over again, but then Castiel clamped his free hand over Raphael's mouth, silencing him.

" _Yield_ ," Castiel demanded. _Pleaded_.

Raphael raised his fist, thumping Cas in the jaw so hard Dean could hear the snap, but Castiel kept his grip on his sword and his balance straddling over Raphael. 

"Never." Raphael spat blood, lying on the dirty, damp concrete floor and Dean wondered if he should've been more surprised at how _human_ Raphael looked. "I will not bow to you, and I will not bow to humans."

"I don't ask you to. Just not to seek the end of this world."

"What is there possibly worth saving?" Raphael laughed acidly. There was blood on his lips now, and Dean realised Castiel's sword was killing him. "We were promised paradise, not this cess pit."

"Raphael," Castiel said, and he sounded so damn sad that Dean found himself wanting to kill Raphael himself just to put an end to this. Just so Cas wouldn't have to do it. Because Dean knew, there was no way this was ending any other way. Yet still, Castiel tried, "And we promised we would look after the humans."

From the way Cas was looking down at Raphael, intense, narrowed eyes, and the way Raphael looked back, Dean was pretty sure there was a whole other layer of conversation going on right there. All those times Castiel stared at him, all the times Dean remembered Cas looking right into his eyes, Dean wondered what Castiel had been trying to tell him. 

"Brother," Castiel begged, and as much as Dean wanted to he wasn't bastard enough to just shout and tell Cas to kill the fucker. It wasn't like he could ever kill his brother. Not really. Not like this.

Raphael's reply was to lash out again, hissing and trying to pull away, punching Cas again and again and again around the face, and trying to grab the back of his neck, pressing fingers in like he was trying to rip out Cas's spine or something. Cas just _took it_. 

"I won't live in this world, Castiel," Raphael said, angry and frustrated. "I won't live in a world without our Father.

"They aren't-"

"They _are_." Raphael grabbed at the hand of Cas's that was holding the sword, pushing it deeper into his own body. "So finish this."

The grief on Cas's face was painful to look at, and beside him Dean noticed for the first that Jeff was sobbing, mumbling under his breath in a language Dean couldn't understand but knew were prayers. 

In the end, Raphael almost seemed to relax, to let it happen. To not fight it. He looked up at Cas and Cas looked back.

"Close your eyes, Dean," Castiel said, his voice deeper, more hoarse than Dean had ever heard it.

Neither Castiel nor Raphael blinked as Cas drew the sword out of Raphael before plunging the point deep into Raphael's neck. 

Light erupted from Raphael's body, iridescent, and thunder roared so loudly it shook the building, the hiss of rain was almost deafening, and through it all electricity crackled all over the room, enveloping Cas, creeping over the ground and around the wreckage of the building. Just as Dean thought they were all going to be fried, he felt the unpleasant, familiar lurch and roll of angel transport.

Then, rain against Dean's face. It was falling so hard it quickly soaked his clothes, seeped into his shoes. It was cold. White spots still danced behind his eyes and, oh yeah, Dean should've done what Cas said, but there was not so much pain so he guessed he still had eyeballs. 

When he could see, when his vision finally cleared, Dean saw that he was standing beside the Impala, alone, and in the near-distance the warehouse burned. 

***

**Revive**

There was celebration in Heaven.

They said, "It is a glorious victory." They said, "It is the will of our Father," and a great many of Raphael's followers begged for forgiveness, had seen the error of their ways, and surely Castiel would be merciful, _brother_.

It made Castiel grit his teeth, and want to call them all lying, spineless hypocrites. For the sake of Heaven he did not. 

Those who had followed him deserved this victory. They deserved to feel that they had achieved something, rather than remembering that Heaven was still in chaos, their numbers decimated, and many of their brothers and sisters still gone. In hiding. Seeking their own way. Perhaps biding their time before another came to lead them; to oppose Castiel.

And Castiel remembered Balthazar's warning that it would never be over. 

In this moment, when others rejoiced the end of the war, Castiel sat on a park bench on Earth on a muggy summer evening and knew that it had barely even begun.

It should have worried Castiel more that he didn't even notice Dean's approach. He didn't realise Dean was there, standing right in front of Castiel holding out a paper bag until he said, "Man, you look like you need this more than I do."

For as long as Castiel had known him, Dean had never ceased to be able to surprise him. 

"How did you know I was here?" Castiel asked, because he had told none of his brothers where he was going, could think of no way for Dean to have found out even if he had. 

Castiel just couldn't be in Heaven right now.

Dean grinned. "I have my ways." He pressed the paper bag into Castiel's hands. It was a bottle. Castiel shook his head and moved over so that Dean could join him. He looked sober enough, maybe tired, but relaxed in the way he leaned back against the bench, stretching his legs out.

"A spell?" Castiel guessed, even though it shouldn't have been possible. He had once learned so many ways to hide himself.

"Nope." Dean took the bottle from Castiel , unscrewing the cap and taking a drink. Castiel watched as Dean grimaced at the taste. "Give it up. You'll never guess." Again he passed the bottle to Castiel. "Drink. Make me feel like I'm not an alcoholic."

Castiel wasn't sure if Dean was joking or not, but he supposed it didn't really matter. He took the bottle anyway and drank deeply.

It was a shame, he thought, how little it would do for him now. Whisky. He recognised the flavour, even if he could barely taste it.

Beside him, Dean cried, "Hey, hey, woah! Leave some for me!"

Holding the bottle up, Castiel saw that he had downed half the bottle. 

"I was helping you to not be an alcoholic," he told Dean, because it seemed like a good excuse, and Dean laughed. 

"Getting the hang of jokes, Cas?" Dean said approvingly, patting Castiel on the shoulder. His hand lingered, and Castiel welcomed the touch. 

Shaking his head, Castiel replied. "I didn't mean it as a joke."

Dean sobered, and Castiel was regretful for that. "Yeah. I guess not." 

Dean took the bottle back anyway, sipping slowly, looking away at the swings and the slide. 

It was a full moon and late into the night, the park coloured in silvers and blues. There was no wind, and very little sound, and for a long time they just sat, Dean drinking occasionally, sometimes handing the bottle to Castiel. And Castiel enjoyed the chance to not think about anything but how he liked this peace. This quiet. 

How here he didn't have to be anything other than himself. 

He didn't know why he spoke, finally, except perhaps he thought that Dean might actually listen. "Raphael loved humanity, once."

Castiel felt Dean's gaze on him, but he didn't look back. He concentrated on the grass at his feet that looked almost black in the shadowed moonlight. "He fought for you, in the First War. He fought very hard."

"Yeah?" Dean said.

Castiel regretted so much. He didn't know how he could ever deserve to be called first among angels when he couldn't even justify himself in his own mind. When he couldn't decide what was right and wrong anymore. "I wish there had been another way."

"We always do," Dean agreed, and Castiel did look at him then. And there, Castiel saw why he fought, and he saw why he had killed his own kind, and why he would doubtless kill again. He thought, perhaps, it was worth the price.

Dean lifted the bottle. "A toast. To Raphael. He was a dick, but he was an angel, so that wasn't exactly a shocker, but he was your brother, and I guess he wasn't always an asshole." He drank, handed the bottle over to Castiel.

Raphael, Castiel imagined, would have hated this human custom. He raised the bottle as Dean had. "To Raphael, who was a good brother, until he wasn't." Drinking the remaining contents was an easy thing, and Castiel savoured what taste of it he could. And for some reason, the idea of annoying Dean appealed to Castiel. 

Predictably, Dean called, "Cas, you asshole," swiping the bottle away and huffing indignantly. "You did that on fucking purpose."

"I did," Castiel admitted, and Dean looked as though he was trying not to smile. 

"You could get me another," Dean suggested, shaking the empty bottle in front of Castiel's eyes. "You owe me that much."

"I owe you more, Dean," Castiel replied honestly, because he did, and because Dean had come and found him and given him everything he could. It was enough, Castiel thought, to feel companionship. Since Castiel had rebelled it was the one thing he had missed most keenly about Heaven and how it had been before. How _he_ had been before. The end of this fight with Raphael, Castiel had come to realise, could never mean things going back to how they had once been.

Dean shook his head. "You really don't."

And Castiel wanted to say, "We will find a way to restore Sam," because Castiel knew better than most what it was to lose a brother. He wanted to say, "thank you," for the drink, and for showing him how to think and how to feel, and reminding him that he didn't always have to do things alone.

Sometimes, Castiel wondered if it would've been easier if he'd stayed just Castiel, soldier of his garrison and nothing more. If he'd let Earth fall, and Paradise arise, maybe he wouldn't have been happier that way. But then, he would never have known what it meant to be happy. Not really. And this place, this warm night with its quiet and its smell of grass and old wood and rusting metal would not exist. 

Dean would not exist. 

Castiel said nothing, because it was nothing Dean wanted to hear and nothing he would believe. Words had never been their way, so instead Castiel leaned forward, touching his fingers to Dean's cheek. He watched as Dean's eyes widened, followed the movements of his hand. 

"Cas," Dean began. "You don't know-"

But Castiel did know, and he wanted, and he wanted Dean to see that, so he kissed him, pressing insistently against lips, hoping that Dean would _get_ it. 

Dean cared, and Dean trusted- some of the time at least- and Castiel wanted more, and this was what he had learned was more for humans. Something closer, a way to express affection that involved no words. Just actions. Like the way Castiel tasted Dean's mouth, and Dean parted his lips and let him, pushing back with his own lips and tongue, dropping the bottle to the ground so he could spread his hands across Castiel's back and pull him closer. 

This was their way, and Castiel would not let Dean go because of all the things in the universe Castiel doubted and feared, he didn't doubt this.

**End**


End file.
